Beyond Good and Evil
by glove cmprtmnt
Summary: "Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil." - Friedrich Nietzsche. Modern.
1. I

_"Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil."_

_- Friedrich Nietzsche_

**One.**

Despite the ridiculously oversized traveling mug recently drained of its caffeinated contents—truthfully, a larger percentage being French vanilla flavor shots and packets of sugar rather than actual coffee—she could feel her interest waning gradually from the small printed text propped open on the table. The cover would read _Social Learning and Personality Development_, although it may as well have been written in Latin. Ordinarily, the topics discussed within the textbook would have been intriguing to Christine, as intriguing as any _Cosmopolitan_ laying in pile back in her dorm—but not tonight.

The library was extensive, large as any abundantly funded University could accommodate. The snowfall that had begun as a light flurry that afternoon was steadily becoming a full-blown blizzard, as viewed from the ceiling-high windows situation past the technologically-enhanced computer area. There was absolutely no rush to hurry out into the storm and blindly wander across campus, hoping to reach the women's residence building before a bluster of wind caught her at a bad angle and she found herself dangling helplessly from the flag pole. A vague huff of laughter escaped her. She wouldn't even be surprised—that was her luck.

She halfheartedly watched fellow students bustle throughout the building, piles of material spilling over desktops and tables, fingernails bitten to awful stubs, and hair sticking up at odd angles due frustrated head-massaging. It was finals week, and Christmas was literally right around the corner. She could literally turn a corner and there would be a man dressed as Santa Claus handing out candy canes, and students wearing red cotton-balls on their noses humming carols. Campus had exploded in a sea of green and red—although it was not politically correct to assign one holiday to this time of year, that didn't stop people from actually doing it. Her own belongings were haphazardly thrown together in several suitcases already, so overwhelming was her excitement to spend winter break with Auntie Valerius.

Despite the excitement, there was a suppressed feeling of despondence. Family-type holidays were always difficult, regardless of how desperately she attempted to seem cheerful.

Auntie Valerius was the best caretaker a young woman could dream of—she was not only patient and understanding, but somewhat eccentric and full of endless quips and ideas. Being raised in her household was something Christine could never be anything but grateful for, but the circumstances in which she found herself adopted were dismal. There was nothing to remind her of her mother but a handful of photographs, but she was beautiful. In all of the pictures, she was laughing—she was laughing with her hand raised to cover her mouth, eyes sometimes open and other times closed. She had waves of golden hair and a long angular face that she passed on to her daughter, but her eyes—azure and constantly dreamlike—were her father's.

Her father had been a quiet man, bearded and tall. He was often away, mentally, and Christine would never be lonely or sad due to his introspective tendencies, because she also inherited them. They both had their music, and their books. She was very little when he began to read to her, fairy-tales of wolves and princesses, all with their own specific morals on humanity. She was slightly older when he accompanied those stories with a melody, violin melodies of his own composition. That was the time when she had met Raoul, and had teased him mercilessly for his posh name until he cried. The mere memory of that brought a deep hue of red flooding into her cheeks, and an impish smile to her lips. Despite her relentless taunting, he had dived into a fountain in the city to recover her red scarf—a blustery day in fall, a loosely adorned shawl, a young boy with sopping wet clothes clinging to him, and a nanny close to tears. And Christine had kissed his cheek, and weeks later his father had business in a different State and they moved away, as Raoul sighed they were prone to doing.

Life did not change dramatically after her close friend moved away, aside from the fact her father began to cough more often and slept a great deal more than she thought normal. Life changed slightly when they took in residence at Aunie's house, although Christine continued going to school and participate wholeheartedly in choir. She avidly tried out for every solo available and auditioned for every open position in every school put on. She began taking ballet classes under the strict and firm guidance of Miss Giry, and with a quickness only little girls can accomplish, became the very best of friends with her daughter, Megan.

Life came to a sudden halt and became abruptly distorted when her father passed away. Those were hectic and terrible days, in which Christine had only the willpower to hide away, wearing his overlarge cardigans and clutching his violin, sniffling and not fully understanding.

Regardless, years continued to churn onward. There was a part of her that never fully recovered, and that was to be expected—not quite so carefree and enthusiastic, though she never wondered how crucial a role that aspect of her personality was. She continued to participate in choir and other school-held drama productions, continued arriving exactly on-time for every ballet rehearsal and recital, but the stamina and drive to bound forward to try out for any available role was diminished. No one except her closest friend took notice as she gradually faded into the background of every event, and buried ever deeper into the land of fiction, and both Meg and her mama were at a loss of how to bring back the vivacious charismatic young girl. Eventually, they accepted the new slightly resigned and withdrawn Christine with tender affection, as one might handle delicate China.

Oblivious to the magnitude of reality, Christine plowed through her studies with an efficiency that stemmed from a lack of social activities and a mature interest in various subjects. It was in this way that she arrived at the University of Seattle, sharing a suite with Megan and two other girls. They were nice enough and attempted to bribe her into accompanying them to parties, bars, and sporting events—and some days, she even accompanied them without struggle, and though her cheerful humorous demeanor would never reveal otherwise, she longed for the solitude and tranquility of home, a blanket and a heavy novel.

It was just that afternoon that they had cornered her in the small but efficient kitchen that accompanied their suite, bombarding her with pleas and squeals about some frat party and all of the liquor and good times that would be had. She had laughed and shaken her head in polite declination several times before the smile began to fade from her face and they sighed in resignation, before Meg pranced in her line of path towards the microwave.

"Well, I know one really juicy detail about this party," she fluttered, casually leaning against the counter and crossing her long tan legs. Christine ran one hand over her forehead and into her sloppy bun, noting how pale her own skin was in comparison. "And it will literally make you spill your lumpy oatmeal all over this kitchen."

"Then you better be prepared to clean it up," retorted a laughing Christine, nudging her friend away and setting the microwave timer.

"I know someone who's going to be there that you will definitely want to see," she continued as though there had been no interruption, and the other two girls exchanged giddy grins.

"Santa," Christine deadpanned.

"Raoul Chagny," Meg burst. One of the girls muttered _'shag-me'_ under her breath, and they had all laughed at the startled expression on their roommate's face.

_He wouldn't remember me_, she mused demurely, with a soft shake of her blonde head. The sky outside was rapidly darkening, though a thick wall of white was still visible due to spotlights situated on every public building on campus. It was a security feature that everyone seemed to agree was necessary, along with the motion-censored cameras attached on every corner of each building, and the tall blue poles situation every five paces that served as a phone-booth rape hotline. It was a wonder that they had not spotted each other the entire first semester, or even had classes together—most freshman courses were the necessary basics regardless of what major it pertained to. It was also a wonder, as she had been sure to grudgingly mention to her friend, that this was the first she was hearing of his attendance—and Meg had shrugged lightly with a simple, _I just found out._

Regardless, her stance on the party had not changed. She would not gussy up and stumble blindly through ice and cold and wind (_flagpole!_) only to be vaguely recognized and said hello to, before being left to her own devices—which would be casually sipping her drink and possibly dancing with the other girls, avoiding the hungry gazes of a handful of men in the room while wondering where her favorite _Jane Austen_ novel was hiding and if it was lost in her clumsy packing. There was one fact about her childhood friend that had not registered while they were both innocent and naive, and that fact was that Raoul's family was filthy rich—yacht owning, polo playing, horse-back riding on the beach, rich. She did not hold it against him; in fact, it made her happy knowing he could go through life carefree and happy. But they were not the same breed, and she would not pretend that they ever had been.

"Christine?"

_I have never been right about anything in my entire life._

"Raoul," she sputtered, head raising slowly from where it had been resting on her arm. Eyes that had been staring blankly at the blurry text expanded before her skewed vision, now absorbed the young adult standing before her—so different than her memory, yet unchanged.

His bronze hair was still shaggy and untidy, carelessly brushed away from his face and tucked behind his ears—she noticed the flakes of snow still clinging to the locks—and his bright blue eyes, almost the same shade as hers but more spirited, and his straight teeth in a broad grin. There was the same stubborn cleft in his chin and the same sloping forehead, though now a slight scruff accented his jawline. His cheeks were slightly pink, and the tip of his straight nose, and she could not help but find this endearing—he was trying not to show how wholly out of breath he was. Taller, no doubt, and leaner with years of polo or football, no doubt he was enlisted in some American past-time, effectively filling out the hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants, embroidered with the University logo (redhawks pride!).

"Where's your coat?" She blurted, eyebrows nearly raised into her hairline.

He laughed. "I, uh," he paused, gesturing aimlessly towards the entrance, where a hard wind could be heard every time someone opened the glass doors. "I forgot it," he finished lamely, fixing his gaze once more on her, still grinning widely.

"Oh God," she could not help but laugh, one hand covering her face in exasperation.

She could not help but wonder how the grown Christine appeared through the eyes of her oldest friend—her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, wearing a simple striped short-sleeves shirt, jeans and boots. Most likely there was lines on her face from laying in such a strange position, no doubt he thought she looked plain with little to no make-up on, in comparison to the women he was used to being surrounded by. Despite all of the pondering in reference to her appearance, the same curiosity continued to hover in the back of her mind—did she look happy? It was a strange question, she did not want to address it, even in the quiet of her own mind, for the meaning of her vague worry. It was just that, he looked so content. He looked how a freshman in college should look, down to the tips of his fingers.

He sat down adjacent to her seat at the library table, scooting his chair in eagerly. "What are you doing here? I mean, well, obviously, look, you're studying like I should...probably be doing," he admonished lightly, before waving it away impatiently. "Meg Giry told me were here—" _of course — "_and, Christ," he faltered, rubbing his no doubt frostbitten nose almost distractedly, staring at the books. He raised his eyes to her again, voice dramatically quieter, as though he only just remembered what the setting was. "Am I interrupting?"

Barely recovered from the sudden turn of events, Christine shook her head slightly, mouth slightly parted in amazement. "No," she responded, and another grin lit up her old companion's face. "Breathe, Raoul," she managed to tease lightly, unable to completely fathom his presence.

He seemed to have the same difficulty because, after laughing at how easily her admonishments towards him came, he stared at her for an almost ungainly amount of time before admitting, "I really never thought I'd see you again."

She smiled and hoped that her face was not a radish, shrugged and looked down at her lap simultaneously. A cage-worth of butterflies seemed to have escaped into her stomach, and she blamed it on the caffeine. "Yeah, well," were the only words that escaped her before she questioned, "So, where have you been hiding all semester?"

The conversation continued to flow easily, each deeply interested in the others past adventures, until subjects began to run sparse and dialogue began to ebb away steadily. He sincerely asked her to come to the frat party, assuring her that it would be a night that would go down in college campus history, and she declined for what she hoped would be the last time that night. Though obviously crestfallen at her rejection, he asked hopefully if they could exchange numbers, perhaps meet up for lunch sometime, and smiled that same face-bustingly wide smile when she mirthfully agreed. And then he jogged down the steps and out into the snow, and Christine was left staring stunned after him, phone resting limply in her small hand.

* * *

Review please!


	2. II

Two.

Utter joy flooded her at the re-acquaintance of such a dear friend, one who reminded her so fully of a simpler time in her life—one who knew her before everything changed so drastically, who would treat her the same as always, who was so obviously jubilant at seeing her, as well. She sat at the table for a little while after he left, recopying notes that were originally scribbled so horridly, they were almost impossible to read. The habitual and repetitive task could not keep her concentration, however, and soon she was writing elegant words that did not even process in her preoccupied mind. Below the joy was fear, abstract and nearly laughable. She was a girl struggling to maintain a grade-point average high enough to keep her scholarship, who could take a day off from studying now and then for leisure and social events, but not often. She did not want to judge her friend so quickly, but he was different. They were both different, grown and changed.

Being his friend would not come so easily in college as it did in preschool.

With a sigh, she pushed those depressing thoughts back, deep into her subconscious. His sudden appearance was wonderful, and she would not let herself taint this reunion with self-conscious doubts. If he called or texted her asking to go out to lunch this week, or next week, she would accept the invitation, and she would force herself to go—no sudden panic stricken lies to stay in the comfort of her solace. She would have an evening of banter and reminiscing, and she would enjoy herself. With those commanding thoughts filling her head, she found herself stuffing her notebooks and textbooks into her purse with more force than necessary.

Stepping outside was just as horrendous as she imagined it to be. Even with layers of clothes including two hooded sweatshirts, one hood pulled over her head, one thick winter jacket, a scarf tied securely around her face revealing only her eyes, and gloves protecting her hands, snow still managed to melt away into her boots and freeze her toes and bring stinging pricks of ice shooting against her legs. The snow fell so heavily and quickly that the streetlamps were dimmed significantly—she had only a vague outline of recognizable buildings to lead her in the right direction. There was no torture to compare to a midwinter storm. She was daydreaming about an alter universe in which she had stayed inside, snuggled up near a window, Raoul be damned, laughing at all the poor souls that stumbled past her building aimlessly. She could almost feel the heater blowing warm air near the armchair she would have been nestled into, almost imagine the text of whatever novel was closest by at the time—when she felt an all too real and threatening grasp on her arm.

She wheeled in the direction of the stranger, seeing only a hood and scarf. There was nothing about the touch that should have seemed threatening, perhaps this person was stumbling through campus lost, blinded by the storm, had perhaps tried to call out to her only to be muffled by the strong wind.

Christine did not get that impression, and naturally grasped the mace canister within her purse. The figure brought a cloth from somewhere outside of her view, she wildly imagined from within the inside of his coat, and she reacted instinctively, pulling the canister and aiming the spray directly between the gap of shawl and hood. A surprised holler was lost on the wind, and she kicked out swiftly, causing a moan to accompany it—she struggled wildly against the stranger's grip on her jacket, attempting quickly to escape from its confines, before a sudden pain exploded in her temple. There was a moment of startled agony in which her body refused to accept the deadly blow, in which she shrieked and fell forward in one last attempt to free herself, but that fall only led to darkness.

_"Would you care to repeat the instructions given to you?"_

_ "You're not listening to me...did the best I could...swung at me..."_

_ "It is a simple request, are you able to recall with clarity the instructions given to you?"_

_ "Get the girl."_

_ "Excellent, yes. Obtain the woman in question, bring her to this address—and, one miniscule detail?_

_ ...What was that?"_

_ "Don't uh, don't hurt her, or..."_

_ "Were those the instructions given to you? Well then, you did a monstrous job of quite a simple task."_

There was an overwhelming feeling of nausea, and that was personally the worst sensation Christine believed a human being could experience. The utter lack of control over one's self, only being able to focus on the lurching dizziness overcoming the mind and body. Everything was soft and warm. She was horribly confused and felt too ill to be conscious, and therefor slipped back down into blissful sleep once again.

Resurfacing once again, she felt a plush pillow supporting her slightly aching head and soft cotton sheets enveloping her. They smelled of fresh laundry detergent. There was complete silence—not the sound of human occupation, not the stirring of wind outside, only her own soft breathing. There was a moment of peace in which she neither felt a curiosity as to where she was that was so serene, or as to why there was a dull throbbing in her head. Then bursts of recollection surfaced—the struggle, the sudden blow, the overwhelming pain—and her eyes flew open, only to be assaulted with a furnished room that was utterly unrecognizable and therefor unnatural in its peaceful silence. The bed was simply furnished, white cotton sheets and a white comforter with white pillows on a mahogany bed-frame. Directly across from the bed were two doors. To her immediate left was nightstand with a lamp, a window—it showed nothing but pine-trees weighed down with snow in the distance—and a dresser beside it, with a small television and a pile of novels atop it. To her immediate left was another shorter, longer dresser, with no accents.

While the contents of the vague snippets of overheard conversation lazily floated to the surface last, Christine spoke words of rationalization in her mind, fighting the rising panic that seemed almost psychically inclined to shoot out from her firmly set lips. There was no conclusion she could come to in regards to where she was or how she was brought there, or why, but there was one horrible fear that tried eagerly to rise to the surface. She watched the news, she knew what happened to young women who were attacked at night, on their own. But it was not conceivable, nearly impossible, that she was becoming a statistic. Who would go through the time and effort of reviving her, of treating her—she tenderly touched her bandaged temple and flinched—wound? That thought was not an option, and yet she could not help the tremors that seized her body.

Moments passed and she began to toss around the idea of calling out, letting anyone know that she was awake, and afraid. Then a series of things happened at once.

The door opened, cautiously and steadily. She watched the door handle turn and the entirety of the door swing inward, and what was revealed paralyzed her momentarily.

A darkly clothed otherworldly figure and an emotionless white mask—and all she could see was the black eye-holes, and suddenly she was screaming. Her breaths came out between shrieks as though she had been running for hours. The figure was crossing the room, it was coming nearer—she kicked and tore the sheets away from her body, attempting to fight away the menacing nightmare figure, she screamed so loudly she could feel her throat burning—and still she screamed louder.

There was liquid being forced into her mouth, leather covering her face, clamping her jaw shut, forcing her to swallow. She choked and nearly blew the substance from her nose, flailing and gasping and still attempting to shriek.

Then another wave of deliriousness came crashing down around her, causing her to lose function of her limbs and vocal chords. She fought against it, crying and yelping pleading words as the figure blearily retreated. The corners of her vision began to grow darker, lines blurrier—a sweet calm enveloped her.

She heard a faraway bang against wood and what sounded like an imprecation before succumbing to another sea of darkness.

Seriously, though. Review, all the time.


	3. III

Three.

There was a light touch on her bare shoulder, and she blinked her eyes open blearily. Standing before her was an olive-skinned old woman with steadily graying brunette hair pulled back into a severe bun and wire-rimmed glasses. There was a moment of incomprehension, before Christine flinched backwards in the bed and inhaled sharply, overcome by the thought of the same nightmarish figure scuttling into the room like a overgrown spider. The woman pushed her gently back down into bed with a patient smile, so that the pillows were supporting her head, which did not pound like it had done previously. Casting her eyes feverishly over the room, it seemed completely unchanged, except for the tray of steaming soup sitting on the dresser to her right.

Her stomach grumbled loudly and for an embarrassingly long time, betraying her.

"Where am I?" She commanded, ignoring her body's obvious need for subsistence. Her eyes stayed focused on the woman as she sighed and calmly placed a checkered mat across Christine's lap, preparing her for the meal she could not rationally refuse.

"I can't tell you that," the woman explained quietly, briefly touching her arm. "I'm sorry."

Christine felt her upper lip curl as she steadily pulled her arms back away from the woman's almost pitying touch, staring distressingly at her as though she was no longer a source of hope. Here was a young woman obviously injured and abducted, she let the word enter her mind because now there was no beating around the bush, confused and terrified, asking for a simple explanation of what has happened to her—and this woman was lacking the empathy to even consider helping her her. She felt bile rise to the back of her throat and swallowed, shutting her eyes briefly and deeply inhaling a long shaky breath.

There were so many terrifying conclusions to her current situation, and all she could think about was Auntie Valerius waiting in her peculiarly decorated home for her arrival, was Meg pacing their dormitories anxiously awaiting her return, calling her, calling people to ask about her, asking Raoul, and his painfully worried expression, and his guilt for not walking with her. She continued to breathe as the knot in her throat loosened and the tears threatening to spill out from behind her eyelids subsided.

"My phone, it's gone?" she assumed quietly, eyes opening to look at the woman once more. She nodded. Christine nodded in return, stupidly thinking of Raoul, and that newly saved number. The unknown woman truly did look empathetic, hovering uncertainly around the tray of cooling food. There would be no point in denying it—a food strike for her freedom would only cause the masked figure to return, and she chose to ignore that obstacle for the time being.

"Who, ah," she broke off, almost beating the comforter in frustration towards the tears that refused to completely vanish, "was that guy?"

There was no way for the woman to know which particular man she was speaking of. For all Christine knew, there were tens of men wandering throughout this house, this building, and she had only seen one of them. For all Christine knew, this could be some sort of bizarre purgatory, or hell, and there was no point in worrying at all because she might already be dead. That was the panic talking, and she quickly pushed those thoughts away. But the woman did know, her eyes lowered meaningfully.

"Will you eat first?" The lady implored, picking up the tray and placing it before the confused young woman before she could utter a word. The soup looked so appetizing, thick broccoli and cheddar with slices of bread and an apple accompanying it, she could hardly refuse. She picked up the spoon and began to eat, delicately at first and then with vigor, not having fully realized how famished she truly was.

"How long was I out?" She asked before receiving an answer for the previous inquiry.

"A little over two days," the woman replied directly, seeming relieved the conversation had taken a turn away from the previous subject. Christine eyed her uncomprehendingly before continuing to eat, soaking up the remainder of the meal with the bread and feeling satisfied when the bowl was wiped clean.

"Thank you," she muttered, rubbing her hands across her face in frustration.

There would be no prying any useful information from this woman, she seemed to be nothing more than a maid or housekeeper of some sort. Gnawing terror caused her full stomach to squirm and there was general discomfort in both her mental ad psychical state. The pressure from the tray was removed from her lap. There was the soft click of the door closing. She leaned into her hands, focusing on taking deep calming breaths and organizing her muddled thoughts, attempting to remove dramatic panic-stricken thoughts and keep solid facts.

It was impossible. Even in calm everyday life, solid facts were difficult for Christine to grasp.

There were two solid knocks on wood, and she tensed immediately. There was a moment of pure childlike terror, in which she imagined, perhaps if she refused to lower her hands from her face, she would not have to face this reality. If she sunk down into the bed and covered herself with these sheets, no one would harm her.

She wanted her father.

* * *

No reviews, no gain.

This is the shortest chapter and it took the longest. I have the first bulk of the story typed up, it just felt weird uploading a chapter without having worked on the whole plot for the past two weeks.

The pace is gonna pick up again.


	4. IV

Four.

She lowered her hands slightly, leaving them to cover her nose and down. The room looked no different, just as he looked no different—same dark attire, same cold white mask. As though being transported to the previous day, the same exact moment, he stood in the doorway, black expressionless holes staring straight towards her. The tremors began on their own accord, racking her body forcefully and without relenting. Abandoning all attempts to appear collected and calm, she allowed her breathing to come in harsh gasps due to the constricting of her throat, the tears collecting rapidly on the waterline.

"Oh God," she moaned in desperation as he stepped inside the room, shoving herself backwards into the bed as far as physically possible, hands clamping down over her face, but eyes unable to pull away from his approaching figure. "Oh God, please, I want to go home."

He did not speak, but only shifted his face this way and that, as though taking in the room and judging the design. He turned back towards the terrified young woman and seemed to hover uncertainly before stating deliberately, "This is to be your bedroom, Christine. You are home."

Nothing prepared her for that voice—she could go to the edges of the world and that hauntingly beautiful tenor would follow. So perfectly pitched and toned to magnificence. He unfolded one arm from beneath a black cloak and extended it, signifying the room. She saw that his hands were covered in dark leather. _Fingerprints,_ she thought wildly.

"_This,_" the voice continued with certain vehemence, almost animating the motionless mask, "_is your home._"

Her breath caught in a muffled gasp from beneath her cupped hands, frozen expression of clear horror plastered on her partly visible face, and even the tears slowly trickling down her cheeks seemed to freeze. The panic that had slowly been building inside of her seemed to implode and turn her numb. She swallowed slowly and lowered her hands to her sides, staring wildly at the madman who seemed to take up the majority of the room, the room he was certain was to be hers. She understood that she was dealing with an incredibly dangerous psychopath, and yet there was a part of her that could not fathom, even now, his mere presence.

He seemed to step out from the very shadows of her own mind, he was a nightmare figure found only in the gloom of catacombs and alleyways. He unfurled from the very corners of darkness, he controlled it with every movement, allowed it to bend gracefully around his sickly thin form. There was an air of complete fantasy around him, as though at any moment, he could conjure a dragon from beneath his cloak or bend the fabric of reality in countless unimaginable ways. There was no escape from that voice which deemed it all ever more possible, plausible that this was an alternate universe in which this room was her home.

She clung to facts; she had been in the library days ago, she had been attacked and brought out here by this sociopath's command, she imagined the bitter cold and knew it to be real, she saw Raoul's face, his wide grin and disheveled hair, and remembered.

"I have a home in Seattle," she replied slowly and carefully, afraid to even blink. "I don't know who you are or what you want from me. If it's money, I can get it. I—"

The figure lifted a hand in polite interruption, and she broke off completely, too uncomprehending to continue. There was a dull throbbing beginning behind her eyes and it made it very difficult to concentrate.

His head was slightly tilted, mask unseeing and unfeeling. "Christine," her name repeated by that voice caused her to shiver once again—there was a tone of complete adoration when he uttered her name, even while attempting to explain something so seemingly obvious. "Money is inconsequential. I want nothing more than your companionship."

_Get a dog!_ She found herself shouting hysterically, but her lips did not move.

"You must see," he continued, and there was a level of desperation layering his tone now, and still that voice was exquisite. "You must see how deeply you affect me."

His gloves hand toyed aimlessly with the lace fabric lining the comforter, and she found that she could not move any muscle in her body. She could not even breathe.

"_You must understand how much I love you,_" he concluded firmly, as though ending a lecture. Now that the words hung in the air between them he brought his hands back beneath the cloak and clasped them behind his back.

There was no doubt that this man was hazardous to himself and to society. There was no way to know for certain if he had been stalking her or how long he had been planning this abduction, but it was a situation that needed to be handled very carefully. She was in an unknown area with a madman and perhaps a staff too terrified or brainwashed to help her, or so she assumed from the earlier woman's behavior. There was a television in the bedroom—perhaps there was electronics throughout the household. If not, there was most definitely an exit, an escape. The woods outside of the one small window seemed thick and extensive, but that was better than no cover at all. If she could maneuver away from the room eventually, perhaps during the night, and sprint out into the forest—but of course, it was bitterly cold outside—

He was staring at her very fixedly, she could feel the pressure on her face, on her eyes. She panicked that perhaps her expression had shown too much.

"There is no deceiving me," he admonished lightly. "And there is nowhere to run to. This is your home."

The completely nonchalant tone in that glorious voice startled her, and again she was reminded of a wizard stepping calmly out into the mortal world. So out of place in this drab room, so strangely mystifying was his lack of expression and cold control over the entire situation. It felt like speaking to a mirage, a hallucination whose voice was able to entwine effortlessly around the mind and lift reality like a meddlesome fog, leaving them alone in a strange purgatory—leaving them isolated, shimmering blue eyes and empty black holes.

The tears began to flow freely again and she attempted one more plea. "If you love me like you say you do," she began, the wobble and hitch in her voice demeaning—and he was immediately on the defensive, jolting slightly as though struck. "If you love me," she began again, leaning forward slightly, "don't keep me here. Don't," her choked tears brought the sentence crumbling apart, a broken plea in its wake.

"You are frightened of me—"

"I don't _know_ you! You had someone _attacked me_!" She hiccuped between tears, the throbbing becoming more intense with each passing minute. The pain brought her enough blind irritation to speak freely. "I don't know you and you _kidnap_ me and you—you tell me you love me?"

"You would not have come freely," he snapped in such dark tones that her mouth visibly snapped shut. The air in the room had changed noticeably with her last outburst and she immediately regretted it. She felt like hairs on her neck stand on end when he approached and bent over the bed slightly, blank mask gazing at her intently.

"From the moment I saw you, you have destroyed me," he hissed, and the little hairs on her arms stood on end as well, goosebumps raising them. "I could not eat, could not sleep, could not compose. You brought this on, my dear—you have no one to blame but yourself."

She stared blankly at the black pits attempting to find some source of humanity, gazing into the abyss and finding only an abyss staring back. There was no arguing with this spirit—yes, that was all he was, an apparition, a ghost—who could flex his voice like silk to accommodate every syllable lovingly, who was so mad with grief and desperation that the very air around him was electrified with it, who loomed over her so darkly that the gloom seemed to take on the entire room, her entire being. This was not a being that would be persuaded or coddled, this was a phantom of a man.

The throbbing in her temple became a pounding, and she instinctively raised a hand to the injury, flinching slightly. In one swift moment, the gloved hand was waving it away, muttering warnings about irritation of the wound. The hand was grotesquely thin.

"Are you in pain?" His tone was abruptly a gentle reprimand, his attention was on her completely.

She nodded wordlessly, unable to tear her eyes away from this puzzling phenomena before her. He returned with a glass of cloudy liquid in the time that it took her to sink back down into her pillows in defeat. As she swallowed it, he watched her—she felt his apprehension, his anxiety, and it made her discomfited.

"Fear _can turn_ to love," he mused, placing the glass onto the nightstand gracefully before quietly exiting the room.

With this terrifying thought swimming in her mind, she lost grasp of consciousness.

* * *

Sometimes I have nightmares about people reading this and not reviewing.


	5. V

Five.

She crawled anxiously across the bed and leaned forward on the corner of the mattress to press the power button on the television, before frantically lowering the volume in case the previous user had left it at an unreasonable high volume. The device could have easily been removed from the room previous to her arrival if its use would upset _him_, and yet her gaze spontaneously flew the the closed door in sudden bursts of paranoia. A typical Christmas movie was being broadcast on a family network, and she suddenly imagined nestling down on a plush indigo soda with Auntie, bowl of popcorn and freshly baked cookies at the ready, flipping through channels and pulling ridiculous faces at each sappy tale.

Time passed both quickly and horribly slow when one was confined to laying in bed, only daring to shuffle woozily to the bathroom and back. The day before, she had managed to bathe quickly and efficiently, still under the discomfiting of surveillance of her caretaker, whose name was Elmira. The pain and dizziness had subsided completely by the fourth day, but the woman shrugged helplessly when Christine complained about the awkwardness of bathing with the bathroom door open. _Just in case,_ she had muttered, and Christine had wanted to scream at the completely brainwashed creature.

The long dresser held underwear and the other had jeans and shirts, all relatively her style. She had stared at the garments nauseously before dressing, as she had not seen her own since awaking in pajama shorts and a short-sleeves top.

This day would have been the day when the majority of students left campus for winter vacation, a well-deserved break between semesters. Luggage would have been wheeled down to cars from dormitories, friends meeting parents and hugging a brief goodbye, the last exams turned in and notebooks thrown into recycling bins. She had spent the morning gazing out the window at the powdered trees, unable to fully grasp the reality of her situation. There was no way of putting the predicament into words without feeling utterly insane, yet she was the rational one—it was everyone and everything else that had suddenly warped. The utter terror had subsided slightly with the knowledge that this man, as bizarre and eccentric as he was, craved her companionship—if she was passive and bided her time, perhaps a mean of escape was not completely farfetched.

The news channel held nothing substantial. Some desperate part of her anticipated that her disappearance would trigger a search that would reach some news station, and her hopes fell slightly when that was not the case. The local channels had been blocked, so there was also no knowledge of her whereabouts gained. With a still heavy heart, she sighed and laid back in bed, legs dangling off the edge carelessly. The dialogue from the film in the background comforted her slightly and so she left that on.

She stayed in that position until there was a knock at the door, and then she sat up wearily, expecting Elmira but instead catching a glimpse of white porcelain from the corner of her eye. He nearly brushed the top of the doorway and once again a feeling of hopeless muddiness swept over her, even the mindless chatter on the television seemed to dull in his presence. In a moment that seemed to stretch on, her stare flickered to the object in his gloved hand and she almost swung out blindly in an attempt to snatch the cellphone from his grasp. In the amount of time it would take for her to obtain the lamp, the heaviest object in the room that was easy accessible, he would surely react and easily overpower her.

So she continued to stare blankly.

"Your friends," he began quietly, obviously gazing downwards at the phone in his hands, "have been anxious as to where you are." When Christine only continued to stare somewhat apprehensively, he tentatively held the gadget out to her. "You may call Miss Giry and your aunt. Explain that you are visiting an Elmira Khan," he advised slowly and precisely. As she opened her mouth to protest, he raised the other hand slightly to signify silence and concluded quietly, "Assure them you are fine and will be returning next semester."

Christine gaped openly, not moving forward to retrieve the phone due to paralyzing shock. "I will?"

He retracted his arm slightly, emotionless canvas of white betraying nothing. "Yes," the voice was still quiet and contemplative. "Assuming you do not behave inappropriately and cause me to lose trust in you."

She wondered vaguely what the clear definition of beyond inappropriately would entail but decided not to question the statement further, not trusting the hope that could not help but bloom. "You said this was my home now," her tone was low and cautious.

"For the next month, _yes_," he agreed briskly, still clutching the phone and now holding it out rather impatiently. The future beyond that time-frame brought more questions rising to the surface of her bewildered mind. Silently, she retrieved the device—his gloved hand withdrew curtly as soon as she had the phone in her hand, as though stung.

The conversations unraveled as smoothly as possible. With the man standing in such close premisses it was difficult to talk and even lie as freely and easily as she would have liked. Although Meg had been worried, she immediately waved the incident behind and chatted mindlessly for a good few minutes. She could sense the mans growing amusement with her attempted girl-talk and forced herself not to chuck the device at his head. Her friend was curious as to why there was luggage still in the dorm and Christine sheepishly asked her to hold onto that, they were just some things she had left behind without thinking they might not have the same suite next semester.

Meg also confessed she had confided her worry in Raoul, who was now also anxious as to her sudden disappearance. Christine internally groaned in exasperation before glancing quickly at the hovering stranger, who seemed to visibly tense with the overheard information—did he know about their encounter?

Was he—? She could not bear to finish the thought.

Auntie Valerius was vocally disappointed, but with coddling from her niece and promises to try to come visit before the new semester began, she hung up the phone reassured and gushing. Christine was nearly in tears.

"Should I make another phone call, since...?" She did not finish, and instead stared idly at her only source of outside communication, soon to be taken away from her.

"That won't be necessary, I think," he replied quietly, and plucked the phone from her hands curtly.

She continued to stare at her palms, hoping Meg would get the message across that she was fine and possibly too tied-up to return his calls. Now that she knew how long the prison sentence would be, she felt nothing but anticipation for the upcoming days, which would be sure drag on endlessly.

"Am I allowed to..." she faltered under the psychical scrutiny of his gaze, "to leave my room?"

She allowed the slip-up to occur. It was horrendous to believe her mind would associate these confines as her own personal room, even as a subconscious mistake. But the words left her mouth because he had said this was her bedroom, and there was no harm in pacification when it came to claiming possession to something so minor, to appease a man that was willing to allow her to return to a normal life. There were many situations that did not end quite so passively, she had not only read about them but had imagined them in her blind panic.

"Of course, Christine," he countered gently, as though answering the timid questionings of a child.

She looked up at him, still endlessly befuddled by his existence. The mask and gloves were strange but she assumed, from a rational kidnappers perspective, they were necessary to keep his identity a secret. The way he moved and spoke, the dark attire and the looming skeletal form, those were facets that only enhanced the aspect of complete mystery and fantasy. He was grotesque but fascinating. To be completely truthful, if he wasn't her abductor, as a psychology major, she would have liked to know more about him.

"Would you care to see the library?" He asked suddenly, and though the voice was continually perfect, there was an abruptness to the question that made it seem not wholly thought out.

There was a level of humanity in his hovering figure, vulnerably awaiting an answer. Resigning herself to the following weeks, she shrugged slightly and nodded.

* * *

I need reviews for sustenance, or else I whither up and get all pruney.


	6. VI

Six.

The layout of the house was fairly simple. Stepping out from the bedroom led to a long and empty hallway. The hallway opened up to a foyer elegantly decorated, tiled floor illuminated with daylight, accommodating a set of stairs and the main entrance, which she could not help but greedily eye before forcing her gaze away. There was one double-door adjacent to the stairs that, he explained lightly, speaking much more easily than she had heard before, led to the kitchen and dining room. The other door led to a lower level, where the staff maintained living quarters and their own personal kitchenette. This news startled Christine slightly, for it implied that he had the means to afford a whole staff—were there drivers, butlers, more maids than the one she had seen?

The next floor was compromised of a balcony that stretched around the entire foyer. There was a lovely view of the forest from a spacious window just above the entryway. On one side of the landing, there were two doors—an entrance to his personal bedchamber and another leading to a small seating room where he conducted business, he explained. On the other was a guest bedroom and their own person sitting area, as well. Directly before the landing of the stairs was another double-door entrance, which opened to an expansive study and library.

The library was amazing. Each shelf was over-brimming with novels, small and tall and hard-cover and dusty with age, and there was a corner dedicated to a desk, itself covered in sprawling papers and envelopes. Plants bloomed from potted surfaces, their delicate tendrils entwining with anything sturdy nearby or otherwise falling gracefully, skimming the carpeted floor. There were heavy curtains obstructing the sunlight from pooling in, and only two dimly lit lamps softly illuminated the room. What drew her attention however, was the piano sitting humbly across the room, not dusty or misused but visibly old, not a grand piano but grand in itself. Leaning against it was an equally battered-up violin, and the sight of it caused her throat to constrict. He _was_ a composer then, she vaguely remembered him blaming her for not being able to write.

Christine could not fathom the elegance of her surroundings—not that her bedroom (_the_ bedroom, she corrected herself with an internal glower) was by any means tactless, it was lovely and the bathroom adjoining it was spotless and decorated beautifully—simply because it was not comprehensible that a man who could afford such luxuries would have to go through the trouble of hiring a man to abduct a college student for his own devices.

"It's beautiful," she admitted, stepping into the room and looking around wondrously.

The door softly clicked closed behind her. The sense of stepping outside reality was heavy upon her.

"May I play you something?" He questioned, with the same abruptness as before.

She could almost imagine his hands wringing from behind his back, where they were clasped. The stance brought an air of grace about him—she never knew a man to speak and act so courteously. Her confusion never ceased, only increased with each passing minute—who was this man, truly, and what could he possibly find intriguing in her? What diluted sense of morality did he possess that made him believe plucking her from her home and bringing her here was natural? Was it complete insanity or just incomprehensible arrogance? If it was arrogance, why did he falter when asking her such basic requests, why was he so sure she would have shunned him if he had approached her? If it was insanity, how did he manage to do so well for himself? Where was there solid footing in this entire situation? Christine felt as though she had been balancing on a tight-wire for the past week, and it was exhausting.

She nodded again, and followed him to the corner where the instruments waited patiently. He picked up the violin and held it to him so gracefully that she could not help but stare intently as she sunk into the nearest armchair, childishly pulling her knees up to her chest and tucking her bare feet beneath her. She felt under-dressed in these surroundings, wearing jeans she had found and a sweater. But she willed herself to not care, because this man was still an unsympathetic sociopath and his staff were all helpless cretins.

Then, with one fluid downwards sweep of the bow, a wailing note escaped the violin, and her thoughts ceased. The haunting melody encircled the area, so tangibly exquisite that it seemed to replace the very air that she breathed. A cloud of complete awe washed over her, for there was nothing more beautiful than she had ever heard. It was mystifying that she had not heard his compositions outside of this room—for if she had, no doubt she would remember them. But in a strange way it made sense. What good were these amazing sounds outside of this room, outside of this moment that seemed to stretch on to eternity? What was reality, for that matter, outside of this moment, outside of this room? It seemed like a gift from the heavens, hardly fit for her own ears—yet, there it was, filling her, enticing her.

"_Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Like a summer bird she floated on the _

_ golden rays of the sun, carrying on her blond curls a crown of Spring. Her soul was as _

_ clear a__nd blue as her eye. She cajoled her mother, she was faithful to her doll, took _

_ great care of her dress of her red shoes and her violin, but above all things she like to _

_ listen to the Angel of music when she fell asleep."_

She was transported back to those wistful days laying out in the sunlight with her father, as he played for her and weaved her the tale of Little Lotte. Every night before bedtime, he would kiss her on the head and remind her that if she was very good, the Angel of music would visit her and teach her how to sing. She had always sung, from childhood to present day, she had always done what she was told and never caused any trouble—her father was gone, but she felt his spirit overwhelmingly with every sweep across the violin strings, as the moving melody encircled her, and this masked apparition.

She had been so sure that he was an apparition, so unfitting with everyday surroundings—but in this light, or lack thereof, lost completely within the music he was creating with the shadows bending to his whim, white mask illuminated in the darkness, her breath could not help but hitch in her throat. He easily swept away any trace of solidity and facts, had easily brought her to this curious location, only to be in her company and play music for her ears alone. There was no doubt he was out of the ordinary, a figure unlike any other, and yet...

Thoughts muddled together more hectically as the cadenza approached, causing her heart to jump into her throat. She could not help but stare blatantly as he moved and bended into the instrument lovingly, feverishly bringing the piece to its apex. She had thought there was no flicker of color behind the mask to give away any source of emotion, but in the dim lighting, there was undoubtedly a glimmer of gold—like two candles burning steadily. It seemed perfectly natural. This gold eyes shifted to meet her own—_blue and clear as her soul—_and she could not look away. They were consuming, mesmerizing—she felt overwhelmed as the piece peaked and then slowly came to an end, notes ebbing away into silence, and her breath was barricaded within her lungs, and her muscles were frozen.

* * *

Review. It's for the children.


	7. VII

Seven.

"Christine," he began very quietly, those same gold eyes continuing to scorch her. There was still an air of complete fabrication hovering over the room thickly like perfume, sweet yet stifling. His tone was not hurried as before, but deliberate and soft—spellbinding. "Sing for me."

It was not a vulnerable request.

She unraveled herself from the plush armchair automatically and came to stand beside the piano, eyes trained on his all the while. Her posture assumed the natural stance, spine straight and diaphragm supported, and yet relaxed—or as relaxed as her body allowed, under the intense scrutiny of his gaze, which did not falter. There was not a ounce of defiance left within her, the mere thought of dropping her gaze from those flickering golden orbs was preposterous. In this room, the reality was that the music he made was beyond earthly wonder—and she wanted nothing more than to obey his bidding. She wanted desperately to hear more, she wanted to sing.

He imitated scales on the violin and she caught on, guiding her voice through warm-up routines that were necessary for any soprano before beginning a piece. Despite the tediousness of this practice, merely the sound of her voice trilling the solfège seemed to enrapture him, and she pushed herself to sound as full and crystal as possible. She adored pushing her voice to higher limits, swooping and flying through peaks and valleys of composition. It was the only true form of escapism that she knew, aside from anything illegal at her age—and singing never left a sour taste in her mouth the morning after.

Abruptly, no doubt when he was sure her voice was warmed to the expectations due from it, he began to play a piece that she was familiar with—and it caused her stomach to drop. She focused on steady breathing as the lyrics of the piece unraveled in her mind, and through the haze of complete fantasy and utter awe that his playing inspired, she suddenly felt the need to bolt out of the room and to the exit.

The scene was a lovers' duet, and she was all too aware of the implications of this piece.

_A duet_, she mused silently, watching him artfully wean the introduction from the instrument. His eyes were still on her and surely he had seen her expression change drastically upon realization as to what the music was, but they held no apprehension. She wondered vaguely how he would accompany her, because although he managed to speak with no hindrance from the mask, it must have been stifling against his mouth.

The voice filled the room, not in the sense that it was boisterous or roaring, not in the dramatic way the violin seemed to focus her entire attention—it was literally filling the room, it was within her, there was nothing outside of the voice. The exquisitely divine transcendental angelic voice, that brought her blood rushing to the tips of her fingers, her cheeks, that seemed to echo within her own mind. Hauntingly gorgeous and perfectly pitched, it molded to the music so gorgeously that there was nothing to do but melt in response, allow a wave of emotion to run through her in response to this voice in mourning for his own captivity, his eminent demise. There was no anxiety within her now. She surrendered herself to the role wholly, in a way that she had not been able to commit before that moment.

She was Aida, hidden away in her lovers tomb, while Radames accepted his death.

"_Viver felice, e la mia sorte orrenda sempre ignorar!_" He wailed hopelessly. His eyes were no longer trained on her but fixed in the distance, mournful and helpless. Then they were alert, and his tone changed dramatically—he had noticed her human form, his Aida.

Her voice escaped her so fully that she had the lurching feeling of being outside oneself, watching as though floating from high above. But of course, that was certainly the case—she was not herself, not in the slightest. She was a desperate princess sold into slavery, come to die with the man she loved. They continued the duet wholly, never faltering or pausing—their voices filled the room so completely that there was a pause in the living quarters below, eyes averting to the ceiling with sighs of awe. Christine met each verse with pure emotion, each peak of his amazing voice causing goosebumps to break out over her flesh. He met her gaze for a moment, and neither could break the contact from that point onward. Nothing existed outside of the music created, soaring and climbing until the pinnacle, when their voices blended radiantly.

"_A noi si schiude il ciel, si schiude il ciel e l'alme erranti volano al raggio dell'eterno di!_"

The violin brought the piece to a haunting finish, and then there was earsplitting silence.

She felt slightly faint and gracelessly fell into the piano bench behind her, finally averting her gaze to glance over to the sheets of music open on the stand. Her eyes purposefully stared at the music notes, avoiding his intense gaze. Cautiously, he brought the instrument down from his shoulder and set it down to lean against the nearest bookshelf. If he knew what to do from that moment on, he certainly did not let it show—and she felt too lightheaded to comment, had there been a comment in her muddled head available. She was unsure of what to think of this man, this place, the entire situation—and she was especially unsure of what to make of what just occurred. Her heart still beat quickly from the utter bliss of submerging into the music, and with hesitation, she glanced over to the man.

He was standing still and staring at her still, as though deep in thought. One gloves finger was even covering the molded mouth on the mask while the other arm was crossed his torso, in a manner so irrevocably human that it stunned her for a moment. And of course it would be, why shouldn't it have been a human gesture?

She really did not think that this—this stranger was—?

That the childhood tales were—?

She looked away again firmly, attempting desperately to reorganize her jumbled feelings.

"Your voice is good," he appraised thinly with a slight nod of his head, and she turned back with a slightly pleasantly abashed expression. "But should you wish to excel, you have much still to learn."

The complacency vanished immediately, replaced by a slack-jawed veneer of pure shock, which seemed to vaguely amuse him by the slight twinkle in his golden eyes. Her thoughts become, if possible, more disorderly as she watched two golden orbs flicker. Suddenly, she panicked—never before, the thoughts swirled throughout her mind in maddening repetition, had she heard such beautiful sounds. Never before had she met someone who could control music so precisely, or who was as inscrutable and unusual. The feeling of fantasy would not shake itself, though the music had long since ceased. _Little Lotte, Angel of music, much still to learn... _

_ "Will you teach me?" _

The words hung in the air for what seemed like a very long time. She almost felt the urge to snatch them from the air and force them away, but simultaneously awaited his answer with baited breath. She had waited and she had done everything right, and now there was this apparition, this memorizing maestro, and it all seemed to be too coincidental—there was a filter of blurry haze, a mystique that seemed to follow him, and she could not ignore the opportunity, she could not dare. It would break her poor father's heart, who had worked so hard to send the Angel of music to her.

The amusement in his eyes flickered out and one of utmost wary astonishment replaced it, as though he was taken aback with this question. Then he nodded wordlessly, and her reaction of a small contented smile almost tangibly spread warmth throughout the room. A sensation of utter relief and tranquility passed through her—thoughts of escape and counting down her remaining days were abolished completely, for now there was a heavenly-sent maestro to shape her voice angelically. She watched him watch her and suddenly felt uneasy.

"Are you the Angel of music?" She asked meekly, never breaking his gaze as it hardened, losing its reserved surprise. Her hands were clasped demurely in her lap as she waited with baited breath for an answer, unable to form concrete thoughts to either berate or reassure herself. She felt that if he did speak soon, she would go mad. The silence pressed terribly against her ears, as though attempting wildly to break into her mind.

Very cautiously, he moved forward, as though unfurling himself from the shadows of the room. As he drew closer, her baited breath caught completely and stayed imprisoned within her contracted lungs, her pulse beating like a butterfly's wing against her chest. He looming figure knelt down gracefully before her, so that his porcelain mask was at level with her frozen features. She had the sudden maddening urge to rip it away but her hands were frozen in place. His brightly lit eyes gazed into hers keenly, penetratingly, as though looking straight through her. Finally, one gloved hand raised slowly and attentively, and she felt the lightest touch against her cheek—and smelled leather.

All at once, she wanted to pull away and go back to her room. She felt colder and everything was bleaker, more silent than before. His eyes were still there, but they seemed solid and expressionless. He seemed more withdrawn than ever.

Then he nodded slightly and her eyes widened. "Yes, my dear," he responded quietly, as though carried on an exhale. The dread that had threatened to overtake her only moments previous seemed absurd. His eyes were glimmering with joy that his pupil had caught on, not reserved and stoic.

She grinned fully and it seemed that her Angel smiled quietly in return.

* * *

_Viver felice, e la mia sorte orrenda sempre ignorar!_

Live happily, and never know of my terrible death.

A noi si schiude il ciel, si schiude il ciel e l'alme erranti volano al raggio dell'eterno di!

And our fleeing souls escape to the rays of eternal day.

For those who haven't read the Susan Kay novel, that is the Tomb Scene at the end of Aida.  
For those who haven't watched or listened to that particular piece, I implore you to listen to it.  
It's touching and beautiful.

For those who haven't left a review yet? You unimaginable bastard.


	8. VIII

Eight.

Her life became a strict lesson on control and technique. There were many spare moments to be filled at her leisure, but relaxing with notes and instructions constantly floating through her mind proved nearly impossible. She kept busy wandering throughout the study, which her Angel left open to her at any hour of the day, dissolving into obscure novels and tinkering with the dependable piano that sat unassuming in the corner. Even at night, music penetrated her vague dreams. The house seemed to be over-brimming with music, even in moments of normalcy—the sound of footsteps on floorboards as the staff conducted their duties became musical. Christine stopped meals from being delivered to her because it was rather embarrassing to be waited on, and instead ate in the staff kitchen below. Elmira continued to keep her company between chores, very patiently showing her how to knit and sew in the quiet afternoon sunlight. They talked very little, not due to discomfort at that point but rather because both of their personalities were quiet and serene, and it suited the both of them very well.

There was no grinning in her lessons from the point onward. The Angel of Music was very strict. He demanded unwavering attention and did not dole out unnecessary compliments. Absolute perfection was the ideal and as far as Christine could tell, she was very far from reaching that ideal. He was not the master of encouragement, on top of that—he frequently became exasperated or patronizing in regards to her blatant confusion, and there were many afternoons in which, between measures and scores, passive aggressive biting remarks were exchanged between the two. Many nights she fell into sleep with tearful sighs, only to be immediately comforted and reassured by the Angel's voice in dreams. She would wake with renowned ambition that helped her stomach the never-ending criticisms of the next lesson.

In this way, time passed. It passed as it tends to, fleetingly and easily.

"Stop," the voice abruptly disrupted her mechanic warm-ups.

While she flexed her voice, mindlessly following the queues from the piano, Christine had been reflecting vaguely on the knitting pattern Elmira had shown her earlier in the day. She closed her mouth, looking at the maestro sheepishly. His presence never faltered in being intense, somehow—the contrast between the dark clothing and white mask that hid all expression. It was easier to read the Angel's body language after weeks of analyzing movements but the overall impression never wavered in making her feel puny. Currently, a nearly unnoticeable head tilt conveyed rapt attention, hands poised over the keys.

"May I ask you something? Why would you imagine rehearsing with a sore throat was a good idea?"

Immediately, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. How in the world could he have guessed? _Oh. Angel of Music,_ she realized dully. _Damn. _She had woken up that morning with her forehead slightly damp from a miniscule fever that had broken the night before and difficult swallowing, but had thought nothing of it as the day progressed. After all, the ache was mild and she did not want to further disappoint her teacher. Although, it seemed impossible to not disappoint such high standards. The biting sting to the words was not lost on her. Anyone else would react to her blunder with slight reproach, possibly, but with yesterday's lesson ending so poorly and with her progress no doubt developing at a slower rate than he had imagined, there was no reason to let this folly go so easily.

"I didn't think—," she began haltingly.

"Well, no, that much I assumed myself," he replied scathingly, flipping closed the score with an air of dismissal.

She chose not reply and instead, took a sip of the lukewarm water sitting atop the piano with an air of what she hoped was elegance. A mantra began its daily reminder, pushing out frustrated abuse aimed at the composer—_This is a blessing, this is a blessing, this is a blessing. I am learning, I am learning, I am learning._

"Your voice could have bee seriously injured. The diligence, the effort; it is so simple to reverse the progress you have made. It would only take a matter of minutes," he explained further. The tone was no longer sneering but it still held a a patronizing quality that never seemed to fully abandon him. "The lengths you go through every day—the warm water, the tea, the honey, the tiresome warming up, constantly readjusting your stance, the strict breathing techniques—is all very necessary, it is crucial that you take it seriously." She watched him explain this because he was looking at the score rather than making eye contact, and it was as though he were scolding a toddler, with choppy hand gestures and a reproachful tone. When the yellow gaze shifted to her face, she could not help the grin that was plastered there.

"I'm sorry," she interjected before he could interpret her expression as mocking or rudeness, as he had a tendency of doing. It was though everything that was not blank attentiveness or agreement was dangerous to him, it undermined his authority and confused him, and therefor put him on the defensive which ended poorly for both of them. It was easier to appease than argue. After all, it could be assumed that he had little experience in human affairs. At his silent reproof, she stressed,"I really am, I didn't know it could be so dangerous."

She realized that still sounded sarcastic and her desperation must have shown on her face because although he merely replied with a, "It would be better if you didn't strain your voice by speaking," it held a light teasing quality that caused her to laugh. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand in that same dainty gesture of her mother .

Instead of furthering his exasperation, it seemed to please him to hear it. He seemed to lose a fraction of the tension that always winded his frame so tightly. As she seated herself adjacent to the piano in that welcoming plush armchair, she wondered how odd it all must be for him, much odder than the situation was for her. The discomfort he exuded constantly would be enough to cause her suspicion if she hadn't heard the otherworldly music that he produced so casually. Unhappily, she realized that she had not heard him play or sing a full melody since they agreed on the daily lessons. Undoubtedly, his teachings took up so much time and exhausted her so thoroughly that she barely had time to pine over the haunting melodies.

"Unfortunately, this will set us back some," he murmured largely to himself, perplexedly astounding voice never faltering in its perfection. She sighed slightly, communicating wordlessly that she was not happy about the predicament either. "Yes," he agreed absentmindedly, adopting the typical stance of deep thought: arms crossed with one hand cupping the masked chin, a long skeletal finger tapping rhythmically against the porcelain. _Of course, rhythmically, _Christine thought with a level of praise. _Everything the Angel does is music. _She watched him openly, enjoying being in his presence for a moment that did not include him being angry with her. They enjoyed a moment of silence in which he was lost in thought, fingering the edge of the closed score absently now, and in which she sipped the warm honey water.

Abruptly, the Angel stood and paced once around the piano before pausing again. She continued to watch him in curious silence. She saw his hands clasp anxiously several times before disappearing behind his back as he turned towards her.

"We simply cannot afford to waste time," he began curtly. Her heart sank slightly at the thought of another reprimand. Honestly, as though she intended on having a sore throat? "If there is no way of rehearsing, we may as well see the hopeful outcome."

His cryptic suggestion was lost on her for a moment as she stared questioningly at his rigid stance. Then her eyes widened with inquisitive glee.

"Have you, by chance, seen Rigoletto?"

* * *

yeah, i didn't like the previous chapter eight at all. i had no idea what i was doing. but i have a good grasp on christine and her angel again.


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